A Cask of Valenta Red
by Morninglight
Summary: Set during Chapter 3 of 'A Diamond in Dust Town'. A cask of Valenta Red brings out different things in people: Alistair fights a fish and loses, Brytta reveals the sorrows of her life as a Duster, and Duncan is forced to admit his feelings for the dwarven girl are deeper than he thought. M for language and triggering content implied abuse .


Note: This is a one-shot for my AU! F!Brosca Brytta from _A Diamond in Dust Town_. Language and some triggering stuff (implied sexual and physical abuse). Those who follow the story know that Brytta and Duncan eventually hook up. I hope you enjoy! BioWare owns Dragon Age.

…

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Brytta sodding Brosca."

Dwyn the dwarven merchant-warrior was still blunt and sarcastic, Alistair reflected as they entered the home which also served as his place of business. The surface dwarf traded in many things from mercenaries to dry goods with a controlling share in Redcliffe's general store. Oddly enough, the little auburn-haired casteless he'd greeted with the statement didn't seem surprised nor offended, instead simply smirking at the red-bearded male and his thugs.

"Place a bet on Mainar, did you?" she countered dryly, the question sending Dwyn into a fit of roaring laughter and his thugs into quiet, evil chuckles. Alistair, of course, was completely confused; it had to be a dwarven thing.

When he'd first seen the branded, scar-faced, hard-eyed dwarf trailing behind Duncan like a puppy and then conversing with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan like an equal, he'd felt jealous and wondered what made her so damned special. Her name was on the lips of every surface dwarf from Orzammar to Ostagar, it seemed, because of her being conscripted by Duncan. Apparently she'd done something so spectacular that the Warden-Commander chose her over hardened Warrior Castes.

_Then_ he'd seen the longing in those vivid green eyes and the studious way Duncan avoided her direct gaze. The awkwardness in their behaviour made him wonder if she'd somehow managed to seduce Duncan. Somehow during the ensuing introduction and first awkward conversation Alistair had managed to avoid sounding like an arse when she'd proven to be a really bubbly, friendly girl. If she hadn't been so blatantly into Duncan, he'd have tried to clumsily flirt with her… She'd even been horrified by what the Chantry did to its templars; Alistair nearly pissed himself laughing at her declaration concerning humans and their society.

"I've been told you have the only decent ale in town," Brytta said when the laughter had died down. "I need to teach this poor sod here how to drink properly."

Much to Alistair's horror, he realised she'd jerked her thumb in his direction. Dwyn and his thugs looked him up and down before grinning evilly.

"I can offer Olin's Black Tar Brew, a decent lichen-ale brewed at Tapster's itself… or a cask of Valenta Red," Dwyn offered cheerfully.

"How much will the Valenta Red set me back?" Brytta asked, eyes shining avariciously. Alistair supposed it was really fancy dwarven ale.

Dwyn named a price which seemed far too much. "Fuck off!" the Duster replied and so began the haggling in earnest. When she finally handed over fifty silvers for a single bloody tiny cask of booze, Dwyn was left swearing that he'd be starving in a month if she hung around Redcliffe for much longer. Brytta claimed it was bullshit and then called for flagons for everyone to share.

Alistair found himself staring down at a tankard of a deep scarlet liquid which smelt fruity and intoxicating at the same time. "Valenta Red's the Paragon of ales," Brytta said cheerfully. "Have a sip, my cloudhead friend."

He obeyed: the taste was light and sweet, leaving a foamy tingle on his tongue. Brytta, Dwyn and the thugs were on their second tankards as Alistair was finishing his first cautiously. He felt nice and relaxed, laughing easily and somehow forgetting to blush as the Warden-Recruit regaled Dwyn with a story about a noble-hunter and a nug which was so vile and bawdy that Arlessa Isolde's head would have exploded upon hearing it. She'd have to be told it one day.

…Around halfway through the second tankard, Alistair found himself telling the others about a sport called 'trout-wrestling' in the Anderfels, where people would drink a tankard of ale and then try to catch trout. Brytta, Dwyn and the thugs thought it a marvellous game and since Redcliffe had a ready supply of trout and there was a stream full of the fish nearby, maybe they should all have a go. Alistair was drunk enough to think it was a fine idea.

Since he'd come up with the idea, it was left to the ex-templar to demonstrate how to wrestle a trout. Since he was only wearing a shirt and breeches, he waded into the fast-flowing stream and grabbed the biggest fish he could find.

It refused to cooperate, slithering through his arms in a rainbow-sheened silvery flash. Alistair cursed, using the vilest imprecation he knew, and grabbed at the creature's tail. He lost his grip again and fell headfirst into the river, Brytta demonstrating a wiry strength as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him one-handed from the water.

"Lemme at him!" Alistair snarled, cloth ripping as he tore himself from her grasp.

"Okay," Brytta said cheerfully as Alistair dove back into the water to capture the elusive trout.

He felt a moment of triumph as his hands closed around the creature's head and dug into its gills. Then something strong and fast and fishy-smelling slammed into his face, driving him into unconsciousness.

…

"…That has got to be embarrassing," Dwyn observed casually as Brytta hauled an unconscious Warden-Ensign from the river.

"He wasn't joking when he said he couldn't hold his drink," Brytta agreed wryly as she checked the ex-templar's breathing. Aside from a rapidly developing black eye from being smacked by the trout's tail, he looked alright. You'd think humans with their greater height could handle alcohol more.

"What in the Maker's name is going on?" Duncan asked in astonishment.

"Alistair tried to teach us how to trout-wrestle… But the fish won," Dwyn answered with a smirk. "You need to teach your people how to drink, Warden-Commander."

Duncan looked down at Brytta. "Was this your idea?"

"Having a drink was _my_ idea," she admitted. "But the trout thing was all his." She grinned cheekily at the man she loved. "Be proud of him. He made a tankard and a half of Valenta Red."

"Valenta Red?" Duncan sounded impressed. "…I don't suppose there's any left?"

Brytta gestured to the open cask and Alistair's flagon. "Help yourself, ser." Maybe if she got him drunk he'd be a bit smarter about snuggling up…

Much to Brytta's disappointment, Duncan only had a single tankard, the stubborn sod. She drank a few more to console herself and then staggered up the hill to vomit in a discreet spot, crying stupidly the whole way. What the fuck was wrong with her to be sobbing over being turned down by a cloudheaded idiot of a human?

That was the problem. Duncan wasn't just some cloudheaded idiot of a human. He was the first person aside from her sister Rica to actually see her as something of worth, not a tool to be used and discarded or a piece of trash to be hustled from the better parts of town. He'd rescued her from a painful death, gifted her with her first real weapon, and showed her what the sun and the moon and the stars were. He was kind and gentle and so fucking handsome…

Strong arms enfolded Brytta, picking her up easily and cradling her like a baby. "It's alright, _maHábba_," Duncan's voice crooned. "I am here for you."

_Now I'm fucking hallucinating, _she thought bitterly as she wept into a cloth-covered shoulder, the scent of Duncan – clean sweat, rosemary and laurels, and a hint of steel – filling her nostrils. The Warden-Commander wouldn't carry a stupid drunken Warden-Recruit up the hill to the castle, would he?

It was an extended hallucination because she was carried all the way there and placed in a big comfortable bed; when she protested weakly she needed a bath, Duncan simply murmured, "Tomorrow," then kissed her forehead like she was a child. Something hot and wet splashed in her hair before he drew away.

Brytta awoke the next day with a raging headache, a moaning Alistair in the bed next to hers, and a sombre, wakeful Duncan watching them both from a comfortable chair. "Are we going to get told off for getting drunk?" she asked plaintively.

The part-Rivaini man shook his head, long black hair (he'd unbound his braid for the night) flowing over his shoulders. She wanted to twine her fingers through that thick, soft fall and kiss him thoroughly. But he kept on turning her down… Why? She felt his hot gaze on her every time they'd bathed together in the Deep Roads…

"…My head hurts," Alistair moaned. "And how did I get a black eye…?"

"You lost a wrestling match with a trout," Duncan answered with more than a little amusement. "And since I doubt either of you are fit for travel, we'll be staying here another day."

"Why would I wrestle with a trout?" Alistair mumbled as he groped blindly for the cup of water and bitter willow-bark pellets left by his bed.

"I don't know." Duncan's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Now if you will excuse me, I need to confer with Arl Eamon on the situation in Ostagar. If you're hungry, feel free to join us in the main hall."

"Yesser," Brytta agreed, finding her own water and painkillers with greater ease than the fumbling Alistair.

"The trout was your idea, wasn't it?" Alistair accused as he swallowed the bitter herbal medicine.

"Nope. The booze was my idea. The fish was all yours."

"…I hate you." Alistair was acting like a child. Didn't he know how to suffer a hangover with dignity?

"You didn't have to drink it," Brytta pointed out cheerfully. "At least we got to seal our agreement in the traditional dwarven manner."

"Oh yes. Alcohol and violence. Lucky me." Alistair groaned and rolled over. "Wake me when I'm dead."

…

Alistair chose to sleep most of the day but Brytta, showing the bright-eyed resilience of the experienced binge drinker, joined Duncan and the Guerrin family for luncheon. The star attraction was a very big trout cooked in butter and rare Orlesian spices and served on a bed of imported Seheron rice and greens. He'd gone and caught it to avenge Alistair's defeat.

Much to Duncan's surprise, the Duster's table manners were better than the usual 'grab and eat' method she employed, even if she used a belt-knife to Arlessa Isolde's preferred knife-and-fork routine. Teagan had urbanely explained to the Orlesian woman that many common dwarves native to Orzammar used their belt-knives and carved spoons to eat because only Noble Castes could afford luxuries like proper cutlery. She sniffed and called them barbaric, missing the flash of fury in Brytta's beautiful malachite-green eyes.

Brytta also shared the story of her conscription at Arl Eamon's request, moderating some of the violence for Connor's sake. Jowan, the new house mage and Connor's tutor, focused on his meal and looked uncomfortable; maybe he was new to such things because he looked awfully young for the job. Duncan spared a moment to wonder why Greagoir and Irving had released him, then inwardly shrugged. None of his business.

He would rather focus on his lovely little Duster and what she'd brokenly confessed during her drunken sobbing. At least Duncan had known the love of his parents before they died and he became a thief; Brytta had known only abuse, theft and violence interspersed with the affection her sister Rica had given her. The Warden-Commander wanted to travel back in time and rip Beraht's manhood off before stuffing it in his mouth until he choked on it. No girl should have been forced to do the things Brytta did just for the chance to watch her sister whore herself out to nobles wanting another brat. He wanted to beat the shit out of Kalah for scarring her daughter so 'she wouldn't be competition for Rica'.

There were so many things that he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss Brytta and show her just how much she was worth to him; he wanted to slaughter every bastard who'd ever looked cross-eyed at her; he even wanted to turn around and go back to Cloudfields with her in tow, spending his last years with her until the Calling came.

It was the last wish that made him realise he couldn't be with Brytta. She was such a strong person… but he wasn't. It would be so easy to let someone else take up the ultimate duty of facing the archdemon… but he was the oldest Grey Warden in Ferelden. He would die sooner rather than later, so better he kill the tainted Old God instead of some youngster like Alistair… or Maker and the djinn of the Fade forbid… _Brytta._

He would encourage Brytta and Alistair to become closer. The tall ex-templar and the dwarven Duster had hit it off wonderfully and he knew that Brytta's pragmatism would balance out Alistair's naivety nicely. And her lack of shyness about sex (remarkable for someone who'd been so… misused… in her life) would help the lad through his own Chantry-born shyness.

The image of Alistair and Brytta entwined together twisted Duncan's heart even as he felt the urge to pummel the hapless Warden-Ensign. Who the fuck was he to get jealous over something which was necessary? Brytta wasn't his, though he so desperately wanted her to be.

_Keep telling yourself that,_ he told himself as Brytta recounted her first encounter with a frog in Cloudfields. That the frog had wound up in Duncan's bed was beside the point; he'd growled a bit and swore, but mostly to see the cheeky little Duster grin cheerfully. He could handle a couple pranks if it made Brytta forget about her past…

He forced himself to ignore the sweetness that a lifetime of brutality hadn't entirely erased in those beautiful malachite-green eyes, the softness her curves promised beneath her shirt, the tempting deep rose of her lips… Well, he _tried_. In the end he gave up and half-closed his eyes to conceal the heat within them…

After she'd gone to bathe for the second time that day (Maker's breath, but she was addicted to soap and water!), Duncan went to the cask of Valenta Red that Dwyn had thoughtfully sent up from the village and helped himself to a generous flagon. He stared into the deep scarlet liquid and realised it was the same colour as her messy auburn hair; he wondered if she would taste like it, fruity and sweet with a tingling aftermath that deceived the drinker with a potency that belied its light taste…

He growled and drained the flagon in a few desperate gulps, quickly refilling it and repeating the action. It took a lot for a Grey Warden to get drunk (unless it was Alistair, and that was only because his body was still adjusting to the taint) and so a flagon or two wouldn't do much more than give him enough fuzziness to just stop thinking about Brytta…

A couple flagons became a few more and he paid for it the next day with a hangover, the brightness of the morning sun stabbing into his eyes as Brytta skipped ahead like a coffee-drinking squirrel, acting with the sort of cheerfulness he despised when he was recovering from a drinking session. He also knew that she knew he hated it; he let her act all happy and wide-eyed because it meant her mind was taken from the sorrows of her life.

He could bear any kind of pain if it meant Brytta was happy. And that was the truth a cask of Valenta Red had made him realise – if he couldn't have her, at least he could make her happy.


End file.
